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Egil Styrbjorn
Egil Styrbjorn of the Skaelings, known also as the Slayer of Souls and Butcher of Immortals is a Norscan High Jarl and one of the greatest champions of the Blood God Khorne. One of the most powerful chieftains in Norsca, Egil took the leadership of his clan by defeating his own father, himself a mighty and far famed champion of Khorne, in single combat, hacking his head from his shoulders and thus ensuring his father's passage to the glorious Halls of Khorne. By doing so, the legendary hellforged battleaxes, Garmr and Gormr, twin axes heavy with infernal power and the screaming essences of Greater Daemons thus passed to Styrbjorn's possession. These blades were ancient, holy artifacts of the Skaelings, and had been passed down through the generations of chieftains from father to son, having been forged in the realms beyond waking thought in honour of the bloodthirsty wolves said to accompany the god Khorne on his hunts without the heavens. Styrbjorn's ascension saw his clan grow in power and affluence, his daring leadership and peerless battle skill bringing victory on countless raids staged against the traditional foes of the Skaeling clans -- the other Norse clans, the Kurgan horse-tribes, Hung nomads, and the civilized realms of the far south. Clad in his blackened Chaos Armour and with the flaming axes of the Skaelings in hand, he was an unstoppable force on the battlefield. His lifespan greatly increased by the blessings of the gods far beyond the normal constraints of morality, he had ruled and waged war in the North for centuries. The mighty Chaos Warlord was truly the beloved of his raging god, who had endowed the High Jarl with great blessings; his flesh had been strengthened by the blessings of the Blood God, fortifying his already prodigious physical strength to god-like levels, and caused his flesh to knit itself back to together even after the most terrible of dismemberment. The Norseman wore the favour of his warlike deity like a cloak -- openly and heavily. To even stand in his presence was to feel a measure of his glory, and to a catch a glimpse of the gaze of the gods which ever rested heavily upon him. Those of particular weakness of spirit and will were known to warp in his very presence, the sheer power radiating from him twisting them into glorious abominations. It was not only by his sheer strength and bloodthirst that Styrbjorn had risen to such pre-eminence in the eyes of the Blood God, but also by his savage cunning and experience, which allowed the elder warlord to overcome and outplay his rivals; far younger champions of Khorne, with more ambition and impetuousness than competence. Styrbjorn had always alternated his raiding targets, for a good hunter never held to closely to a single prey, his grandfather had said to him, lest he run them into extinction. He would raid on target for a half-decade, whether they were Kurgan or Imperial, before turning towards another race to vent his fury upon, allowing his enemies to grow soft and complacent with his absence, as well as affluent, making them more profitable targets in the future. The southerly kingdom of Bretonnia too has felt the brunt of the Norscan's fury, though regardless, it was under Styrbjorn's reign that a Bretonnian was inducted into the tribe. And this was no slave taken upon a raid, but a male child taken and set under the guidance of the shaman, a boy who had drifted across the northern seas on a rickety fishing coracle half-dead. Styrbjorn's god-touched eyes saw the power radiating from the boy, and perceived the mark of the Dark Gods upon him, for he had the ability to tap into the powers of Chaos and command the Winds of Magic, what the Bretonnians ignorantly knew and feared as 'Fay-touched'. Thus did Styrbjorn see the favour of his gods in taking this child as his own, and taught the child the ways of the Skaelings -- the ways of war, how to honour the gods with one's actions, and how to live and die with the honour befitting a man of Norsca, and did name the child Bjarki, admitting him into his own household. Bjarki's proudest moment came when, after learning all he could from his master Skaelabran, did choke the life from the malevolent shaman, thus inheriting his position. Many later victories became attributed to Bjarki's sorcery, but Styrbjorn was far past the point of feeling an iota of jealousy for the boy, as the shaman's sheer devoution to the man he saw as his father sat opposite to his allegiance to the Dark Gods. Yet nonetheless, the presence of the shamanistic Bjarki never served to satisfy Styrbjorn's overpowering hunger for a trueborn son of his own, a mighty warrior who would be favoured by the gods, and able to carry on his name. History Egil Styrbjorn attained leadership of his clan by defeating his father in single combat, hacking his head from his shoulders, thus ensuring his passage to the Blood God's halls of battle. As a result, the ancient hellforged axes, Garmr and Gormr, heavy with infernal power and the bound essence of Greater Daemons became his to wield on the battlefield. Holy artifacts of his people, they had been passed down the line of High Jarls for generations. Under the chieftain, the Skaelings of Strovengaard attained many bloody victories in their devastating raids against the neighboring Norse tribes, such as the mighty Graelings and Vargs, the countless Kurgan horse-clans, and even the slant-eyed Hung barbarians. Along the way, Styrbjorn had, as many warlords of Norsca, made an alliance with the Chaos Dwarfs, specifically with the Dwarf Lord Zumarah, in order to make use of his mighty Hellcannon, Ereshkigal-Namatar; so named for the twin daemons of blood, fire and industry bound in its creation. While Styrbjorn was wary of the excessive greed of the Dark Dwarfs, the power of the daemon construct proved enough for him to tolerate the presence of the Dwarf, paying him his geld of slaves and gold with every victory bought with the fury of Ereshkigal-Namtar. He had become particularly impressed with the cannon's might during his war with the Aesgar clan, as its power had reduced their mighty fortress to a flaming ruin within moments. Styrbjorn had taken many consorts from amongst the womenfolk of Strovengaard, for many women of Norsca are desirous to share their beds with men who bear the stigmata of the Dark Gods' favour, and from these countless wives had Styrbjorn sired a brood of 13 progeny of all ages. Yet not one amongst his wives could give to him a son, a warrior who could carry on his name after his death. The hoary bearded champion was troubled by this, and awaited a sign from the Dark Gods of the woman blessed with the honour to carry his true heir. Styrbjorn has slain slain tens of thousands of foes in battle, and has amply demonstrated the favour of his god Khorne by doing so. Amongst some of his greatest achievements was to duel a mighty Dragon Ogre Shaggoth atop the Knife Peaks of Norsca, amidst a mighty storm conjured by the Dark Gods that woke the beast, defeating the primeval horror in single combat and carving its very heart from its chest. He alone faced a great serpent of the Undersea, spearing it through its belly and dragging it ashore before cutting its head from its neck. He took leave of his clan for a time to wander the darkened roads of the Chaos Wastes and smite the numberless monstrosities there to further show his power. He had ran with the terrible Ulfwerenar, hunted alongside the hulking white-furred Beastmen of Norsca, the Ymgir, and had feasted at the tables of the terrible Bloodbeasts of Khorne. This and more had Egil Styrbjorn, wielder of the legendary daemonaxes, Garmr and Gormr, done. for the bloodthirsty Chaos Warlord was truly the beloved of his grim god, and Khorne had lavished his favoured champion with blessing upon blessing. Clad in black, impenetrable Chaos Plate forged in the likeness of wolves, his long blonde beard and hair but streaked with iron, and his pale eyes blazing with the fiery rage of Khorne, and festooned with trophies of his brutal and bloody victories, he stands as a true avatar of his god's power, and it is clear to many that he is long ahead on the path to ultimate glory and godhood in his own right. Invasion of Bretonnia Attack on the Isle of Landri In 2502 IC, Styrbjorn made preparations for a massive invasion of the far southern kingdom of Bretonnia -- realm of the horsemen. When his seer, the shaman Bjarki, received a blood-vision from the Dark Gods of this woman, residing in the land of Bretonnia, which had for too long gone unmolested by Styrbjorn and his raiders, the mighty warlord knew at once that the gods had heeded his prayers, and did bid his legions of battle-hardened tribesmen, including his eldest daughters, both sword-maidens of commensurate skill, to take to the longships to make war upon the horsemen. Styrbjorn's longships initially made landfall on the great island of Landri, off the coast of Lyonnesse, in the far north-west of the country. Though there were literally thousands of inlets that made up the archipelago of north-western, Landri was by far the most significant of these barren isles, able to support a relatively large population. It too was said to have been protected by the Lady of the Lake, though this was soon proved an erroneous assertion. And though it was true that the people of Landri too paid homage to the god Mannan, offering sacrifices unto him that he might guard the seas from the fury of the Chaos raiders, whatever supplications they too had made to that god fell short, for the Norscans had made landfall upon the isle, accompanying the coming of winter, and despite the seas having roiled and heaved with fury. Styrbjorn's legions; composed of bloodthirsty axe-men, feral Ulfwerener and mighty Huskarls bedecked in hulking Chaos Plate bearing the Marks of the Great Powers did fall upon the meagre defenders of Landri and slaked their thirst for death. Styrbjorn himself made short work of all those who dared his wrath, slaying both mere militiaman and sorcerous priestess of the Lady of the Lake alike with ease. He felt nothing for those deaths, for barely at all did he even consider the Bretonnians worthy even of his contempt. Stunted weaklings they were in his eyes, bereft of bravery or martial honour, smaller and weaker than even the Kurgan and Hung, and at least the latter two were men who paid homage to the true gods, men who lived and died without fear, men whom a warrior could at least feel pride in defeating. Whatever antipathy he had for the Bretonnians themselves, it could not hope to contend with the sheer disdain Styrbjorn felt for their weakling deity. His raiders had closed in on the isle from both sides; the Bretonnians thus were hemmed and those who sought escape from the Norscans' rage found their route blocked. They thus clambered their way to take refuge in the only place left that could afford protection -- holy abbey of a god they called 'the Lady'. Though he had raided the Bretonnian coastlines many times, Styrbjorn had paid little attention to the faith of the men there. Having once hailed from the land, Bjarki explained the role of the Lady, describing her as a petty deity of little true power, and her clergy as doddering women weak of body and mind. To run from battle and shun death was cowardice unthinkable to a Norscan, but the idea that any god would be craven enough offer succour to those who would choose the road of cowardice was a ghastly thought, and only served to harden Styrbjorn's disgust for the land, for how could he respect a race whose very god was not worthy of respect. Striding into the chapel, beholding a statue of the Bretonnians' goddess, the warlord had felt all the more disgusted. Here, in his mind, was a weak and degenerate god; not one of power and might like the gods of the north. The dying priestess who tended the chapel spoke of how the Lady would defend her people and avenge the Norscans' desecration of her holy place, but Styrbjorn scoffed at this disingenuous statement and, to demonstrate the weakness of the southern gods compared to those of the north, he personally destroyed the holy statue of the abbey, depicting the weeping image of the Bretonnian deity. As no divine retribution fell upon him, he had established the superiority of the northern gods. Those few amongst the people of Landri who had fought to the last were given an honourable death by the axe and the sword, in honour of Khorne, Lord of Battles. Those far more numerous who had begged and bargained for life were left impaled upon great brazen stakes to die by inches. The blackened throne of Styrbjorn was taken out from his kingship and placed within the defiled chapel, his very presence so tinged with the daemonic that it furthe despoiled that once holy place, and the Norscans made sport of those few survivors of their raid, and ransacked the wealthier homes for plunder. As the roiling of the sea had delayed the rest of his longships, Styrbjorn and his warriors thus stayed at Landri, awaiting the rest of his mighty Skaelings to join him in despoiling the kingdom further inland. Amongst those forces were the mighty Tuskers, the hulking war-mammoths of Norsca. Though Styrbjorn had utmost faith that his warriors would easily overcome any foe, he nonetheless wished to see the terror that would grip the horsemen upon bearing witness to those magnificent monstrosities. When the rest of his longships reached Landri, he marshalled his forces further inland, intent on finding the woman prophesied to bear his promised son. Ravaging of Lyonesse Though the decision to wait at Landri for the rest of his forces to gather rankled with some elements of his followers, particularly the Chaos Dwarfs, Styrbjorn silenced all dissenters in his ranks easily enough. When the rest of his forces finally arrived after two days, the Skaelings made the push further inland. In particular, Styrbjorn was beginning to truly pursue his goal in the southern land. The seer had prophesied that the consort, now revealed to be a powerful sorceress of the Kurgan tribes, was even now making way north to meet with Styrbjorn, as the gods had decreed. They would meet on the eve of a great battle against the horsemen, where Styrbjorn would gain a great victory, and on the eve after, in sight of the daemon-moon Morrslieb, they would conceive their child together. Concerned that the mother of his son would come to peril alone, despite Bjarki's claims of her great power, he nonetheless charged Bjarki and a lesser chieftain known as Kveldulf to take a pack of horsemen southwards to the crow fields where the battle with the armies of the Bretonnians was to take place, and bring her to him. Meanwhile, Styrbjorn turned to plot his victory over the armies of Lyonesse, L'Anguille, Bastonne and Currone. No mindless berserker Styrbjorn, the elder warmaster embodied also the bloody tactical mastery of his Lord, and had plotted the downfall of this enemies since the time of hearing of where he must invade. He knew that the Bretonnians would, given the reputation of the Norscans, underestimate their foes, believing them limited only to a full frontal assault. Styrbjorn had sent a force of Marauders ahead of the main horde to harry the Bretonnian forces of Duke Adalhard of Lyonesse, while the rest of his warriors moved inward, slaughtering and plundering supplies. Duke Adalhard met Styrbjorn's vanguard, but only succeeded into fighting them to a standstill. Skirmishes with the Norscans continued after that initial engagement, with the Northmen attempting to gauge the full strength of the Bretonnian defenders, and to hold them off while Bjarki and Kveldulf roved the western countryside, searching for the prophesied bride. Dispatched by the King himself, the forces of L'Anguille too marched for the defense of their southerly neighbours, despite the lingering border dispute between the two Dukedoms. Bjarki and Kveldulf soon succeeded in finding the Kurgan witch, Haegtesse, pale-skinned and darkly beautiful, the sorceress had forcibly taken possession of a younger body, supplanting the soul that had originally resided there that she might be able to bear the Norscan's daemon-son, as it was foretold. Brought into the Skaeling war-camp, on the eve of the battle to come under the gaze of Morrsleib. Though her eyes settled hungrily upon the Skaeling warlord, their coupling had been decreed by the Gods themselves and was to take place under careful ritual, with the lifesblood of Bretonnians to baptize the product of their union. The next day the first snows of winter had come early, unnaturally so some had thought. The Skaelings had assembled into a wide advance, with a strong center comprised of the mighty, heavily armoured Huskarls. As a predominately infantry army, given the Norscans' general mistrust for horses in the thick of battle, it was thought that the Skaelings would position themselves atop an elevated position, such as the great motte just behind their position, but instead they had marched forward to engage the Bretonnians in open battle. The field was seemingly poorly chosen; a wide flat plain with little in the way of hills, rocks or trees to obstruct the charge of heavy cavalry, thus, it was a theater of war that favoured the Bretonnians' tactics. Duke Adalhard had intended to launch a single, devastating heavy charge that would cut through into the center of the enemy horde, where Styrbjorn was thought to have dwelled, thus routing the Norscan invasion. The Pegasus Knights, however, could not deploy along with the rest of the army, due to the inclement weather. It was a simple strategy on the part of Adalhard, but one that had nonetheless been exploited effectively by countless Bretonnian generals. The army of Duke Adalhard marched under the banner of Lyonesse, the Banner of Thierulf, depicting the legendary hero and companion of the great king Giles le Breton standing victorious over a mountain of Orc corpses, framed by a halo of holy light. It was said that the hair of a Elven princess had been woven into the banner, and that any army that fought under the standard would never know defeat. Ten thousand heavily armoured knights charged forth, with several hundred kept behind as a tactical reserve, at the barbarian ranks. The Norscans unleashed their corrupted war-hounds at the charging horsemen, the unbridled fury of the mutated beasts blunted the charge, slowing the Bretonnian advance. The Norsemen too began to charge at their foes, though slowly, as though anticipating something. And overhead, a crimson light thundered into the sky. Here was the herald for the first phase of the Skaeling battle-plan; for the thundering crimson fire was the signal to unleash the blazing fury of Ereshkigal-Namtar. The hellcannon's payload of daemon-fire smashed into the mass of knights, even as they themselves crashed through the Norscan battle-lines. Hundreds of knights were slain by the first barrage, burned and cooked alive in their own armour. Flesh bursting into flame along with tabards, banners and horseflesh, and blood boiling and bursting in veins, mingling with plate armour turned to quicksilver. The majority of knights who had survived the barrage stubbornly renewed their pursuit of the now retreating Norscans, despite the fact that it was very clear that the northmen were attempting to draw the Bretonnians deeper into their midst. Only when they found themselves encircled by thousands of giant black-armoured Chaos Warriors did the knights realize that they had been duped into charging the foe's center, which had given away to them intentionally with little resistance. It had been a simple, yet excellently crafted ploy, and it was now clear that few Bretonnians would leave the field alive. The hammer had now fallen, and the savage fury of the Northmen saw thousands of knights and yeomen alike slaughtered and torn apart. Even with that, concealed Marauders did emerge violently out from under snowdrifts, roaring bestial war-cries as they leapt from their concealments and fell upon knights and peasants out on the rapidly disintegrating army's edge. The shining army of Lyonesse had been brought to its knees. The defeat of the enemy was assured now, and the Bretonnian ranks, gripped by fear, were already being torn asunder even further from within as elements of the army began to push for retreat. The inevitability of their deaths warring with their inherent pride. Nonetheless, Stybjorn had one last malignant hand to play; for his mighty war-mammoths had taken to the field. Towering beasts with rage burning in their eyes, touched by the Dark Gods, they smashed the ranks of Bretonnian and Norscan alike with earth-shattering force. A trio of the behemoths slaughtered hundreds of knights as Norsemen hurled axes and javelins from their howdahs, slaughtering hundreds. Styrbjorn himself sat in one of these howdahs, surveying the glorious carnage with delight. At the sight of the Norscans' monstrosities, the remaining knights quit the field in panic, their honour forgotten, and Duke Adalhard was grievously wounded. Though his body was recovered, the army of Lyonesse was utterly and decisively defeated. With that victory in hand, the eve was devoted to the enactment of the ritual to conceive Styrbjorn's daemon-son. Eight of the tribe's mightiest were sacrificed for the ritual, having given their lives gladly for their master's service. Under the sight of Morrslieb and the Dark Gods, in the presence of daemons and spirits who had crossed forth from the Realm of Chaos to bear witness, it was thus clear to Styrbjorn that his son would be favoured indeed, and so he took Haegtesse under the sight of the Witch Moon, and a daemon-son was conceived. Haegtesse herself had one hand to play however, and after Styrbjorn had taken her, she offered him a goblet which he drained in a single drought. The cup itself held a dosage of Whorlsroot, a deadly herb known to kill men in a wasting fashion. In large enough quantities, it could kill outright, and Haegtesse had laced the warlord's goblet with enough to kill one of the immense Tuskers of Styrbjorn's horde. His god-given constitution allowed him to survive long enough for Bjarki to concoct an antidote, something the Kurgan had not foreseen. Haegtesse had intended to birth the child alone, and then sacrifice it to the Gods to attain immortality. given how her decrepitude was beginning to consume the bodies she claimed to prolong her life all the more rapidly. Bjarki hurriedly brought his adoptive father back to health, and Styrbjorn awoke burning with fury, incensed that the woman would be so brazen as to try to kill him, and worse, try to kill his son. The Kurgan had not gone far, and had not counted on the Skaeling shaman having the knowledge necessary to save the Chaos Lord, and had thus not managed to get far before Styrbjorn caught up with her. Shocked by his survival, the hag could barely summon her daemons to aid her before Styrbjorn's fist had sent her screaming to the ground in pain. Captured, she was taken back to the warcamp, an arcane device placed upon her to arrest her magic. Siege of Castle Lyonesse Having accomplished what he set out to do, Styrbjorn was ready to leave Bretonnia, though the initial decision had rankled with some of his tribesmen and allies, particularly the Chaos Dwarf Zumarah, who had yet to receive his payment of slaves from amongst the captures thralls of the raid. Zumarah had gone so far as to threaten to take his geld from amongst Styrbjorn's own tribe, but the Chaos Lord made light of that threat, and would not be deterred, and any challenge to his decisions he quelled with violence. Realizing the birth of the Skaeling daemon-child would herald great devastation for Bretonnia when father and son returned to her shores, Morgiana Le Fay, Fay Enchantress and leader of the Cult of the Lady, charged one of her disciples, a Damsel known as Anara, to prevent this from coming to pass. To this disciple, she afforded the aid and protection of the Grail Knight Reolus, a warrior reckoned by many within Bretonnia and beyond to be amongst the most elite swordsmen of the Old World. The two traveled to Castle Lyonesse, where Adalhard's army had fled, including the knights of Garamont, including Calard of Garamont, Anara's kinsman. Joined by a contingent of knights, the Bretonnians crept into the Skaeling camp under the cloak of sorcery, while Styrbjorn and his warriors rejoiced and celebrated their great victory in the lands of the horsemen, the tribe's skalds regaling them with the saga of the berserker, Knut the Bloody. The Bretonnians succeeded in capturing Haegtesse, along with the unborn child. When he realized this, Styrbjorn flew into apocalyptic rage, his god-touched bellow carrying easily through the winding halls of the fallen temple of Landri, rallying the Norsemen to battle. Eyes ablaze with the fire of Khorne, Styrbjorn vented his rage upon the assailants, hacking men from crown to sternum as he frantically attempted to prevent the Bretonnians from fleeing. Ultimately however, the warlord's prize was seized from him. Burning with fury, the Skaeling warlord swore that he would slaughter every last man, woman and child of Bretonnia in order to save his son. Norscan longships began sailing from their rallying point on the Isle of Landri, making beachhead upon Lyonesse's shore once again. The sight of the dreaded sails of the Skaelings, combined with the utter terror the devastating defeat suffered by the Duke's army caused, led to the peasantry almost rioting in fear, frantically attempting to book passage to the island stronghold of the count. The Norscans sacked the townships of the Lyonesse mainland, plundering the settlements for supplies with which to carry out their coming siege; creating siege ladders, battering rams and makeshift catapaults. A barrier was formed around the island, created by lashing hundreds of longships together, while all the while hundreds more made beachhead, unloading their cargo of bloodthirsty warriors and feral Chaos beasts. When the last thousand made it ashore, the vast horde of High Jarl Egil Styrbjorn had finally gathered, and the Champion of Khorne led them in a blood-curdling war-cry. The Norscans began the siege by building a defensive emplacement, far out of range of the Bretonnian trebuchuets, for the mighty hellcannon that had been instrumental in their prior victory. Its power would now be all the more necessary for the coming siege. The first offensives were to probe and weaken the defenses of the great citadel; the opening wave consisting of blood-maddened berserkers. Though the thousand-strong wave was defeated, they had inflicted grevious casaulties upon the defenders -- 19 knights and 200 peasant levies. Though Castle Lyonesse had stood unconquered for nigh 1500 years, no man was quick to forget the bloody defeat they had suffered at Styrbjorn's hands, and some began to whisper it was better simply to give the barbarian king that which he sought. Regardless, the battle looked set to continue. With the second assault, the fury of Ereshkigal-Namtar was once more unleashed. The daemonic fire of the hellcannon lanced into the battlements of the castle, reducing the topmost towards to molten rock, sending flaming debris in all directions and killing hundreds of men-at-arms. The next barrage was just as devastating, and though Castle Lyonesse had stood undaunted agains the hail of cannonfire of the Empire's warmachines, not even its ancient stone could withstand the power of raging daemons and dwarf-craft. Realizing that the siege would end in defeat unless the enemy's artillery was neutralized, the Grail Knight Reolus led a sortie forth to destroy the cannon, which he succeeded at, banishing the daemons too that had been bound to the cannon's iron and steel. Nonetheless, this was but a mere setback to the grizzled Styrbjorn, for though the hellcannon was no more, the Bretonnians had revealed a damning truth when their priestess parted the seas that their champion might lead his sortie; the waters of the strait were not but thirty feet deep. As masters of the sea, this knowledge would proven devastating in the hands of Norsemen. The Norscan offensives soon restarted, and with even greater lethality. The next wave was filled with heavily armoured, blood-crazed Chaos Warriors and grizzled veterans eager for the chance to die honourably in battle. The warriors smashed into the defenders on the battlements, reaping a hefty toll from the Bretonnian knights. While they were driven back, yet another wave was all too ready to attack, affording the Bretonnians no breathing room for which to recover. The defenders were thus forced to quickly shore up their defenses, in spite of mounting casualties and weariness. Regardless, the true blow of Styrbjorn was not marshalled on the walls, but rather in assigning a special task to Bjarki and a cadre of warriors, including his nephew Eilif. Having 'questioned' prisoners of war, the Norscans uncovered the existence of a secret route into the castle (the latrine chute, incidentally). Bjarki and his warriors made their way to the mechanism that operated the castle portcullis, slaughtering their way through the opposition they encountered on the way. A score of Sveinbjorn's dragonships arrived, sailing the shallow strait and through the portcullis, each ship with a hold filled to bursting with bloodthirsty berserkers too long denied the glory of slaughtering their foes in the name of Khorne, and with the arrival of these warriors came the sounds of deafening trumpets, heralding the coming of the great war mammoths that had wrought such havoc on the battlefield amongst the knights of Lyonesse just three weeks prior. Stomping their way across the shallow strait, carrying yet more warriors in their howdahs, the mammoths would allow the invaders to bypass the walls entirely. Like living battering rams they hammered open the mighty gates of the castle, allowing the elite of the Norscan army -- Styrbjorn's mighty Huskarls, each a powerful Champion of Chaos in his own right; massive giants encased in unholy armour festooned with bloody trophies and fetishes declaring their brutal piety, charge into battle. With contemptuous ease did these warrior-kings slaughter everything that stood before them, hacking through armour, flesh and bone. But they are as children next to the fury of their lord and master. With massive battle-axes in hand, blazing with fiery power as they claimed life after life, as if pleased with the blood their master shed, Styrbjorn slaughtered his foes in their scores, a bloody god of war astride the battlefield, his twin axes wailing and screaming as they hacked off limbs and heads from bodies with every swing. With every life he took, the warlord roared and bellowed, laughed and sang; reveling in the screams of the dying, the geysers of blood streaming from the severed stumps of the necks he had cut and the pleasing sound of shattering bones as he crushed their skulls and tore asunder their bodies under his axe blades. The Norscans' assault forced the remainder Bretonnian army to retreat to the inner keep. From then on, the Norscans started to besiege that building. In the surrounding area, the Norscans had desecrated the sacred temple of Manann that stood on the outskirts of the island, slaughtering the Hermit Knights who protected the holy place, before murdering the venerable priests and tearing down the statue of Mannan in honour of their blasphemous gods, eliciting cries of outrage and sacrilege from the defenders on the battlements of the keep. Styrbjorn ordered wave after wave of men at the keep, uncaring of the mounting casualties as victory lay so close. Thousands of men were slain with minutes, so great was the scale of bloodshed, but it made no difference, for the Norscans were winning -- swiftly and surely. It was thus Egil Styrbjorn, a raging warlord of the Norse and champion of Khorne, whose puissance and tactical acumen had allowed him to take the legendary castle of Lyonesse were all others before him had failed,and at such an unfathomably quick speed as well. It staggered the nobles of Lyonesse that it was a savage raider of the northern seas that had finally brought them so low. As the Norsemen began to hammer the gates apart, a wailing cry pierced the air -- the birth scream of the daemon child that Styrbjorn's blood-son. An excruciating sound that echoed not only in the mortal realm, but also in the madness of the Realm of Chaos, existing in both simultaneously. Those to attuned to the Winds of Magic fell to their knees in agony upon hearing the cry, and even those not gifted with the powers of magic felt their souls tremble before the cry of this unnatural birth. Only the father, Styrbjorn, was not unmanned by the sound, but rather beamed with pride and joy that the gods had at last answered his prayers. The Challenge Though Styrbjorn's advisers had protested his decision to parley with the Bretonnians, he had remained adamant in his decision to throw down the gauntlet before them, challenging their greatest warrior to a duel in order decide the fate of the siege. He would not leave the life of his beloved son to chance, for who was to say that the Bretonnians would not smother him to death as the keep fell, or throw him from the battlements in spite. It was, after all, what he would do in their position. Styrbjorn thus offered his terms; the greatest warrior amongst the Bretonnians would come forth to face him in battle. If he prevailed, the horsemen would bring out his son. If he failed, then he would be dead. In either case, he pledged the Skaelings would give the Bretonnians mercy and return to their homeland. Styrbjorn's choice had brought some murmurs of bewilderment amongst the Skaelings, for many men had lost sword-brothers in the battle to take the keep, and now that they were to offer the Bretonnians mercy had elicited great disapproval from many. Amongst these malcontents stepped forth the Dwarf Zumarah, with whom it was a grave offense to spare the Bretonnians, as he was yet to receive his geld of slaves and gold for his services, which stung him all the more, as he had lost his great invention -- the hellcannon -- on this venture. He angrily accused Styrbjorn of being a coward and oathbreaker, which drove the warlord into a rage. While Styrbjorn was a true paragon of warfare, Zumarah was an ancient Dwarf lord who had forged his strength and skill across the centuries. Ensorcelled obsidian clashed with hellforged steel as the two warriors matched their strength; though Styrbjorn was easily twice the height of Zumarah, the Chaos Dwarf was as implacable as the mountains. The two warriors traded a dozen blows in barely the space of a single heartbeat. Styrbjorn struck his mighty armoured fist into the Dwarf's broad face several times, each blow strong enough to shatter stone, but still the Dwarf would not fall. Zumarah hammered his greataxe into the Norscan's side, but this too did little to slow his assault. The Dwarf Lord threw the Skaeling Jarl back, and charged forth to deliver a killing blow, but grasping the haft of one of his daemon-axes, Styrbjorn threw the mighty blade at the loping Dwarf, striking him square between the eyes, killing him instantly. Styrbjorn's god-touched flesh knit itself back together, and he retrieved his weapon from the Chaos Dwarf's skull, roaring a challenge to any other who sought to dispute his rule. No man stepped forward. Styrbjorn thus returned to issuing his challenge to the Bretonnians atop the battlement, Bjarki serving as his translator, demanding the Grail Knight Reolus, whom he had met during the melee in the castle courtyard shortly before he and his Huskarls drove the Bretonnians to seek refuge within the keep, to come forward, for the High Jarl judged the paladin alone amongst these southern whoresons as being able to provide him an adequete challenge. Realizing the battle was all but lost, Duke Adalhard agreed to these terms, asking for an hour's time to make the arrangements. The Duel Sources * Knight of the Realm (Novel) by Anthony Reynolds Category:Chaos Category:Monarchs Category:Northmen Category:Chaos Incursions